Christmas ~ Endings and Beginnings by Nancy M Bell

 

If you're still looking for Christmas presents all my books are available as ebooks so you don't need to worry about Canada Post and their striking workers. Just click on the image above and it will take you to my page where you can order from your preferred distributor. 

Christmas will be here in just a few days. The season means so many different things to so many people. When I was a kid it was all about waiting for the Simpson-Sears and Eatons Christmas catalogues to arrive. Then my sister and I would go through both of them marking what we wanted (or wished for) to see under the tree on Christmas morning. Of course, there were always the 'big' things we wanted that were far beyond my parent's budget, but it was fun all the same. My birthday falls just a few days before the big day, so I got to pick birthday presents from the catalogues too which was an added bonus.

Christmas dinner was a huge affair, my aunt and uncle would always come with their dog. Uncle Jim was my mother's only brother/sibling so it was a tradition that they come and share Christmas with us. My older sister with her husband and kids would come and the living room would be taken over by the 'good' table with many leaves in it to make it reach from one end of the room to the other. The 'good' table spent most of the year reduced down to a much smaller size as the leaves were removed and then the base acordianed into itself and one piece flipped over so it took up very little room in the corner of the living room. Our house was pretty small,  two bedrooms upstairs and my grandparents turned what was originally the dining room into their bedroom. My sister and I slept in bunk beds in my parent's room until my older sister got married. It was crowded but it was never boring.

Later on, as we grew up and left home, Christmas became different. When I married, for a few years we had two dinners. One at my parent's house and one at my husband's parents. That didn't last more than four or five years. We still visited both houses on Christmas but only one dinner! LOL

But the years move on, my own children are grown and following their dreams. They are both too far away to spend Christmas together. There are empty places at the table now where family members used to sit. In time, it will be my place that is empty. The circle moves on, the wheel turns...

So now, for me Christmas is about endings and beginnings. Not in a bad or sad way, but in acceptance that the only constant thing in life is change. There is the ending of the year that is passing, all the years that have passed before this one, and yet there is the new year waiting to be born with the rising and setting of the sun. A new year of possibilites and adventure. Like an ouroborus which is both the beginning and the end as he holds the tail of his remembering in the mouth of his future, the world is full of endings and beginnings. 

May your holidays be full of joy and laughters. Until next month, be well, be happy. 

 

Book Launch for The Tom Thomson Mystery Announced.

To learn more about Nancy's books please click on the cover above.  

https://bookswelove.net/authors/canadian-historical-mysteries/

 

I'm happy to announce that the book launch for The Tom Thomson Mystery will be on November 16, 2024 at 1pm MST. The Purple Platypus Bookstore 5003B 50 Avenue in Castor Alberta will be hosting me and I'm thrilled to work with Lynn Sabo, the owner. There will be refreshments and perhaps some swag.

Here is an advance reader's review:

Thomas Thomson was a Canadian artist best known for his landscapes. He spent his summers capturing the scenery in Algonquin Park, Central Ontario, first in oil sketches on small wooden panels and then producing larger works on canvas during the winter in Toronto. His best-known piece of work is The Jack Pine. What isn’t so well known is how Tom died. On July 8^th, 1917, Tom’s canoe was found overturned in Canoe Lake, not far from where he set out. His body wasn’t discovered until July 16, 1917, also floating in the lake close to where the canoe was found 8 days earlier.Was he murdered? Did he commit suicide? Or was his death accidental? Nobody knows.

Nancy M. Bell has skillfully woven the threads of fact and fiction in her rendition of what might have happened. Her protagonist is young Harriet St. George, a very modern-minded young lady who loves escaping her strict family, particularly her stern father. She also summers at Mowat Lodge on Canoe Lake in the Park. She loves to tramp through the woods, canoe, fish, and paint to her heart’s content. Her friend Winnie Trainor, also a summer visitor, is sweet on Tom, while Harriet appreciates his skill as an artist and does her best to emulate him. But then Tom is missing.

Harriet suspects the Lodge managers, Shannon and Annie Fraser, of being involved in illegal activities. Who should she turn to for help? Besides Winne, the Park Ranger, Mark Robinson, is the only person she can share her suspicions with. All the characters are clearly introduced and have their place in the story of the search for Tom. The ending is unexpected and dramatic, and some readers may not see it coming, but it is an entirely satisfying conclusion to a true Canadian mystery

VM Chatham

I thought I'd include a small excerpt as well, just to whet your whistle.

This is the Preface:

Hello, let me introduce myself. I am Harriet Agnes St. George. I’m sure you’re wondering what I have to do with Tom Thomson, or indeed, with the mystery surrounding his death. I’m a painter as well and the wilds of New Ontario, that which you now know of as Algonquin Park, is one of my favourite places to indulge my passion. Being the early 1900s it is unusual for a woman to wander about unchaperoned, and in the bush at that. But let me assure you, I am no ordinary woman. I like to think I’m the forerunner of a new breed of women who will strike out and demand to be allowed to reach their full potential without the mostly unwanted advice of some male figurehead. It is only in April of this year of our Lord, 1917, that women are allowed to vote. About time too, in my opinion.

Let’s just say, it’s a good thing my dear Great Aunt Lois left me a sizable amount of money in her will, in my name and solely in my control. Much to my father’s anger and dismay. But I digress.

Tom Thomson and I used to haunt the same places and tramp the same paths and portages, sometimes alone and sometimes together. Winnie Trainor often accompanied one or both of us, most often Tom as she had a soft spot for the man. Winne wasn’t a painter, but she did love to fish and was always happy to help portage. And she did have a yen for Tom, as I have mentioned.

So, leaving you with this bit of background information, I will endeavor to tell the tale of Tom Thomson’s death and the aftermath as I know it. The subject is still a painful one for me, so as you will soon see, I have set the story down in third person rather than first. It’s a way of distancing myself from the grief and the anger at the treachery that ended Tom’s life and his career.

Chapter One- to give you a taste of Harriet's character

Harriet St. George stepped off the train at the Canoe Lake Station and smoothed down her skirts. Tipping her head back, she took a deep breath of the sharp air of early May. It was so wonderful to be free from the restraints of her rather conservative family. Here at Canoe Lake, Harriet could dispense with the cumbersome skirts and traipse through the bush clad in trousers and a flannel shirt. Not to mention the much more comfortable boots she wore while in the woods, exploring for the perfect site to set up her portable easel and paintbox. She loved the French name for her paintbox: Pochade. It rolled off the tongue so nicely. Harriet giggled and refrained from doing just that. The locals already thought she was a bit strange, well except for Winnie Trainor who also liked to gad about in trousers and spend hours fishing out on the lake.

Shaking her head, Harriet turned to collect her luggage, not much more than the aforementioned paintbox and a duffle stuffed with what she would need for a summer of painting and fishing in the Park. Hopefully, the Frasers of Mowat Lodge had received her telegram, and her room would be ready when she got there. With the paintbox in one hand and the duffle over her shoulder, she went in search of the park ranger, Mark Robinson, who kept track of all comings and goings in the Park and had promised to arrange her transport from the station to the Mowat Lodge.

The duffle was heavier than one would expect, but that weight made Harriet’s heart light. Along with the few clothes stuffed haphazardly in the bottom, most of the room was taken up with her collection of oil paints, brushes, and thin wooden shingles that she intended to use painting en plien aire. She’d copied that trick from a fellow painter she’d met last summer. Tom Thomson tended to paint quickly, but with an accuracy and feel that Harriet envied, any place he found a scene in the woods that spoke to him he captured it on the shingle boards. Only later did he transform the rough painting on the board into a canvas, usually over the winter when he returned to Toronto.

Someday, she promised herself. Someday women artists would be recognized as well as the men. She loved the vibrant new style that was developing in the Canadian art world. Slipping away from the traditional method of reproducing a scene in minute detail. The advent of photography was slowly making that form of art less popular. Thomson’s use of colour and bold strokes of paint intrigued Harriet and she vowed to attempt to hone her own skills this summer.

“Oh, Mark. There you are,” she greeted the tall, thin park ranger who stepped out of the station house.

“Miss St. George.” Mark acknowledged her with a tiny bob of his head.

“Oh, please, it’s Harriet,” she chided him. “Once I ditch these skirts you’ll be hard pressed to tell me from the locals.” Harriet gazed at the thick bush and the pale blue early May sky, the lake where the ice was just beginning to break up. “I do love this place.”

“Harriet, then, if you wish. I’m sure if your father was here he wouldn’t approve of me being so familiar.”

“Pish posh on my father. I’m free for the summer of his stuffy ideas of what is proper for a young lady.” She giggled. “I have my Great Aunt Lois to thank for this freedom. She left me a generous inheritance with strict instructions to use it as my heart desired. And I desire to spend the summer here, in Algonquin Park, painting and fishing. Watching the stars and moon shining over the lake.”

I hope you enjoy the tale. Until next month stay well, stay happy.

Changes ~ Old Dog New Trickls

 

To find out more about Nancy's work click on the cover above.

So changes. I have to say I don't particularly like changes. But right now I'm going through a huge one. The place I've lived in for 30 years has been sold and we're packing up lock stock and barrel and moving to small town Alberta. Castor Alberta to be exact. It will be a big change from living rural with my nearest neighbor being the local coyotes, badgers and gophers. Not to mention the ravens who nest across the road.

We took possession of the small house on April 30th of this year and have been painting and cleaning. It's an older  house, built in 1932, but then I like older  houses. The one I'm leaving is a 1920s vintage. The moving and packing has  put a dent in my writing time but I'll have to get back to it pretty quick once we finally get moved in. Movers are coming on the 14th of May to take the bigger stuff, like my beloved oak antique bookcase, up to the house.

Below are some memories from the house I'm leaving but also leaving behind a piece of my heart. Until next month, be well, be happy.

 

 

 

 

Prized Collection, Or Clutter? By Connie Vines #Collections, #Why I Collect #BWL Insider, #Collection, #Author Hobbies

 Like most authors, I collect books, newspaper clippings, writing supplies, and notes from workshops I've attended.

 

I'm also a big fan of Snoopy and the Peanuts Gang.

However, this collection was not of my own doing. I walked into the school office holding my coffee in a mug, an image of Snoopy at his typewriter. 

Of course, someone asked if I liked Snoopy, and I said yes. That was a huge mistake. Why it became an undying topic of conversation, I do not know. Students gave me stickers, adults gave me books, and my children bought me a lunch pail to take to school. I was also selected as a chaperone during the end-of-the-year field trip to Knotts Berry Farm. Why? Yep, you guessed it--Camp Snoopy!

(This is only a peek at my gifted treasures).

Unlike those who may consider my collectibles clutter. I decided to look into the reason people collect items. 

The psychology behind the reason for collecting:

What is the personality of a collector?

 Collectors tend to have above-average financial resources and better levels of education. Their personalities are characterized by High Openness and low Neuroticism (anxiety, depression, self-doubt).

Is collecting stuff a coping mechanism?

Those who collect may have suffered abandonment issues as children or feel that they lack control over their own lives. By gathering and curating objects, they can reverse that feeling. In particular, those with few mementos of their childhood might compensate by holding on to anything they can.

➤ I found this interesting. My father was a career Naval officer. This meant frequent relocations. This also meant he was deployed (submarines) each year for 9 months or longer. (Three years of sea duty, then 3 years of shore assignment. 

So, are you a collector?

Or is clutter your nemeses?

Please post and let me know if you are a collector. 

Please visit the BWL website for new releases, story snippets, and more information.

Happy Reading?

Connie

https://bookswelove.net/vines-connie/

 

Growing Older, Maybe not so Gracefully by Nancy M Bell

 

The cover of the Ontario offering for the Canadian Historical Mysteries Collection from BWL Publishing to be released November 2024

To find out more please click on the cover

I recently came across some old pictures. I look at the girl in those photos and I wonder who she is. It's almost like she's a different person and not a younger me, which is absurd. But I realize how much I have changed as I grow older. Maiden, Mother, Matriarch, Crone. I don't mind growing older, I just feel like I've somehow lost a bit of connection with the younger me.

I used to believe I could do anything I put my mind to. Anything. As I've grown older and managed to break myself a few times in pursuit of following the credo I could do anything I put my mind to, I have learned that such beliefs need to be tempered with caution.

Caution??? A word my younger self didn't even have in her vocabulary. I scaled cliffs above the town of Minden in the Kawarthas of Ontario,  I rode all the rough horses I could get my hands on, if something was walking the knife edge of danger I was there. (I said I was young, not that I was smart, okay?) I liked the bad boys, you know the ones I mean, the wild ones, not a mean bone in them but good fun with no strings attached. I attempted a waterski jump with heavy wooden skies weighted down with metal strapped to me feet on Davis Lake. Just let me say that venture didn't end well and was a one off. I used to hitch up the horse trailer and go where I needed to without a worry. Embark on road trips without worrying about the weather. I can remember running out in the pouring rain of a thunder and lightening storm in the big back field behind my childhood home.

The me of today? Hell, I worry about the roads being icy, or a ton of what ifs that never happen. I imagine part of that comes from the long periods of convalescence I've endured after breaking a pelvis and mucking up my spine and a few nerve endings in one incident, and then another long period of waiting for a crushed tibia plateau injury to heal complete with metal plate and seven screws. I wonder if that taught me caution or if it just served to put a bag over the head of the younger me. I'm not sure about the caution, but I'm determined to reconnect with the younger me who threw her head back and embraced the storms.

I refuse to be a boring old Crone. I have learned to be more blunt and speak what's on my mind. It came to me in my fifties (I think) that a lot of people didn't seem to care if what they said was hurtful to me and why the hell was I being careful about what I said to them? I don't go out of my way to be mean or hurtful but I am more apt to say what's on my mind. That's something my younger self would NEVER do. I always did my best to be invisible and escape notice. 

So, I'm not sure that I'm growing older gracefully, but darn it I am getting older. So I've decided to be the best Crone I can. 

1960s Sprucedale ON at Aunt Lottie's

Me on the right, my sister on the left 

Gramma Lois Pritchard, Aunt Rotha and Aunt Lottie Hines 

May 1977

   

Glastonbury Tor

2000s Surrey International Writers Conference

1980s Uxbridge Fair

early 1970s at Davis lake

 

January ~ The Month with Two Faces

 

To see more of Nancy's work please click the cover. 

January, named for the Roman god Janus, he of two faces. One looking forward and one looking backward. January is the start of a new calendar year and we look forward to the coming year with expectation. As I grow older it, January is also a time for introspection and looking backward at the year that just passed and indeed, even further back at the long line of years stretching behind me. A time to remember those who have made the crossing into the Shining Realms. A time to give thanks for the joy and successes and a time to appreciate the trials and tribulations that have helped mold me into the person I am today. 

January is a time for planning and shedding thoughts and patterns that no longer serve us. And also, a time of welcoming back the strengthening sun. Each sunrise comes a little earlier, each sunset a little later. I watch the sun's journey as it slips ever so slightly toward the north, gaining a tiny bit each day. The sun, the moon, are constants. They make their seasonal journey through the heavens shepherded by the constellations. The Big Bear in her various identities - the Big Bear, the Big Dipper, the Ploughshare and a dozen other names, Orion with his hounds at his heels and his belt shining even in the deep dark nights of November and December. Constants that remind us we are part of the great All That Is, while also reminding us that humankind is a very small insignificant entity in the majesty that is the all encompassing space that surrounds our small galaxy.

On another note, looking forward now. Airdrie Public Library is hosting my book launch for Laurel's Choice on January 24th, 2024 from 6:30 to 7:30 MST. I hope anyone who is close enough can come out and say hi. It should be fun and there might be a surprise or two. 

Until next month. Stay well, stay happy

Two Bits of Exciting News to Share with You by Nancy M Bell

 

To learn more about Nancy's books click on the cover above.

First, my contribution to BWL Publishing Inc. Canadian Historical Mystery Collection releases September 1, 2023. It is set in Winnipeg Manitoba in the late fall and early winter of the year 1869. The murder mystery is set against the backdrop of the Riel Rebellion which came to a head during this time period and into early 1870. It was a custom of the immigrating European men to take native wives. While they didn't marry them in a church, they were considered married by a la facon du pays, or according to the custom of the country. These country wives ensured the survival of the immigrants who were in no way equipped to survive the harsh Rupert's Land winters. However, once the settlement became more developed and expanded, the English imported women from the home country who were considered more acceptable in the increasingly European society. The new brides, dainty and refined, were married by clergy and usurped the country wives positions. These native women, both indigenous and Metis, were cast aside along with their children. Most of the women and children were absorbed back into their communities, some just disappeared. 

My second bit of good news. On the August long weekend, I had the pleasure of attending When Words Collide in Calgary. It was a wonderful time as always. I sat on three poetry panels with some amazing poets, and was on the panel for two slush pile readings, YA and Romance. We were treated to some amazing works in progress and invited to give our advice and feedback. 

It was great fun to touch base with old friends and make new ones. 

The poetry panels were Epic Poetry Readings and the audience was encouraged to share their poems as well, Cast A Spell with Poetry and Birth of a Poet. On the poetry panels with me were Jennifer Slebioda, Tammy Rebere, Josephine LoRe, Richard Graeme Cameron and Sandra Fitzpatrick. It was a lovely time and hopefully When Words Collide will continue to thrive under the new management. Registration for 2024 is open now online. 

Stay well, stay happy, stay safe.

 

April is Poetry Month! by Nancy M Bell

To learn more about Nancy's work please click on the image above.

Spring is here. I think... It's April and April is poetry month, so it must be spring. My mare is shedding her winter coat, the gophers are out and stealing her grain while she's eating it. But there is still 5 feet of snow drift on my back garden....so Spring...what the heck!

But I digress. As I mentioned, April is poetry month. So my goal this year is to write a poem a day in April. I've done this before many years ago and then just sort of lost the time to do this when life kind of took over. When you read this, it will be April 18th, so hopefully I will have 18 poems under my belt by then. I'll let you know how I fare in next month's blog.  

For those of you who write poetry, come join me in my April quest. For those of you who dabble or don't write poetry at all...why don't you go for it. Not necessarily a poem a day, but maybe just one or two for the month. Poetry is amazing, so many forms, so many emotions and moods it can invoke. I find poetry cathartic myself, somehow giving the emotions or thoughts the freedom of lighting on the blank page gives me freedom to let them go. 

Poetry is joy, sorrow, grief, love and whatever name you wish to attach to it. So come on, let's go for it! April Poem a Day here we come.

Just to whet your whistle, here are a couple of my older poems.

From 2011

Spring Snow

Nancy M Bell

The storm demons are howling rabidly across the sky

Dragging their icy talons against the window glass

Screeching their defiance through the hydro wires

Buffeting the house with their fists of wind

Shrieking they the fall upon the exposed prairie

Vomiting great gouts of snow to cover the earth

They hurl handfuls of icy pellets in my face

As I struggle to let the stock into the barn

 

Mean spiritedly they snatch the door from my frozen fingers

Slamming it open and popping one of the hinges

I bare my teeth at them and wrestle the door from their grasp

Hold it steady as the horses troop in out of the angry storm

 

The bale of hay spills its summer scent in the frigid air

A sunlit meadow song to battle the storm raging outside

The storm demons grab me in their teeth and shake me

As I blindly make my way back to the house

 

Power and fury personified; they scream their defiance

Their voices howling through the wind in my ears

Reluctant to exchange the winds of winter

For the thunderheads of summer 

   

Bitter Ashes

The taste of bitter ashes on my tongue

All the more potent for their age

The things I should have said

Coiled about the things I did say

Time slides by in endless flood

Bearing my choices out of reach

Things I can’t change

Things I wouldn’t change

 

That line from an old Kristofferson song:

“I’d rather be sorry for something I’ve done,

Then for something that I didn’t do.”

Oh, the things I didn’t do!

 

Choices that affected other’s lives

More compassion here, more forgiveness there

The phone calls I didn’t make

The words I didn’t say

 

The taste of bitter ashes on my tongue

More potent for their age

All I Want

All I want is to walk in Grace

To live my life under the wide sky

With a good horse under me

And endless country in front of me

 

All I want is to make each day count

For something; no matter how small

I fed a stray dog the rest of my sandwich

I put seed out for the birds and food for the feral cats

 

All I want is to be happy in my skin

To know I’ve done the best I can

With what I had to work with today

And know that I will try to do the same tomorrow

 

All I want is the wide sky sweet with dawn

And the morning breeze on my face

Followed by the burning blue noon

With the sun at its zenith

 

All I want is the golden sky of sunset

And the dry prairie wind hot on my neck

The softness of evening gilding the range

As the gold melts into the royal blue of night

 

All I want is the silver of moonlight

To throw shadows across my bed

While the song of the coyote rides through the night

To know that all is right with my world

  

Till next month, be well, be happy.

 

I'm excited by Nancy M Bell

 

To learn more about Nancy and her books please click on Kayla's cover.

I'm excited because I am about to embark on my very first author tour! Jude Pittman, publisher of BWL Publishing and I will just be back from a whirlwind tour of Nova Scotia, Newfoundland, and New Brunswick when you read this. Currently, the date is February 7, 2023 and I am in the middle of preparing for the departure.

I've only been to Nova Scotia before and it was a quick visit, although I did get to Peggy's Cove and the best lobster roll ever! This time, we will be promoting the new audio books of the Canadian Historical Brides collection. SInce Jude is the co-author of Pillars of Avalon (Newfoundland) and I'm co-author of On a Stormy Primeval Shore (New Brunswick) we are covering as much of the Maritimes as possible in a short period of time. We will also be meeting with some BWL authors who live in the area, so doing double duty in that respect.  It will be so great to meet with everyone and enjoy talking about books and writing.  

Hopefully, the weather will co-operate as we're busing it and taking an overnight ferry from North Sydney, NS to Port aux Basques NFLD and then returning the same day via overnight ferry to North Sydney. Should be quite the adventure.

See you next month, until then stay safe, stay warm.

 

Thoughts About Writing Novels by Rosemary Morris

 

To learn more about Rosemary's work please click on the image above.

If I had a pound from every person who said he or she could write a novel it would add a worthwhile sum to my income. At a party, a man I met for the first time found out I am a published novelist. He pursued me relentlessly to find out how to be published. Years ago, he wrote a textbook and now wants to write fiction. I became more exasperated by his belief that I could give him the means to write a novel and find a literary agent or publisher.

“There is only one way to succeed,” I said, trying to conceal my irritation.

“What?” he asked eagerly, obviously thinking that I have a magic formula.

I resisted the temptation to say: ‘Get on with it instead of talking about it’.

“Write,” I told him.

Writing is demanding work. It requires dedication. Except for Christmas Day, I get up at 6 a.m. With a short break to eat breakfast I work until 10.a.m. After dealing with mundane tasks, working in my organic garden, and cooking, etc., I write form 4pm to 8p.m. with a short break for afternoon tea.

During the hours set aside to concentrate on my career as a novelist, I divide my time between writing, research, dealing with business, receiving, and answering e-mails, working with on-line constructive critique partners, and publicising my books.

Among other activities related to writing, before covid struck I attended a writers ‘group where I met published and unpublished writers. Members read extracts from their novels, non-fiction, poetry etc., and received useful feedback.

If someone chats to me about finding time to write, my advice is to have a routine, whether it is as little as fifteen minutes every day carved out from a busy life, or time set aside to write once a week. The important thing is the routine which separates real authors from would be ones.

Rosemary Morris’s novels

 

Medieval novels set in Edward II’s reign.

Yvonne, Lady of Cassio

Grace, Lady of Cassio

Early 18^th century novels set in Queen Anne Stuart’s reign, 1702-1714.

Far Beyond Rubies

Tangled Love

The Captain and The Countess

The Viscount and The Orphan to be published soon.

Regency novels.

False Pretences.

Loosely Connected series which do not need to be read in sequence.

Sunday’s Child

Monday’s Child

Tuesday’s Child,

Wednesday’s Child

Thursday’s Child

Friday’s Child

Saturday’s Child

 

The first three chapters of each novel may be read on my web site. www.rosemarymorris.co.uk

 

Links to online bookstores. http://bookswelove.net/authors/morris-rosemary

Thoughts About Writing A Novel ~ Theme by Rosemary Morris

To learn more about Rosemary and her work please click on the image above.

Thoughts about Writing a Novel - Theme

 

The theme of a novel is different to the plot. It is the subject. The plot is action, it shows the reader what happens and answers the questions, Who, What, When, Where and How. The theme is often abstract and drives the plot forward. It might focus on the cause of conflict or a main character’s goals. An effective theme should not overpower the plot. It should be used as a background - the characters’ experience, the author’s individual style and word pictures which tie theme and plot together. The beginning of the novel should indicate the theme.

Some themes can be applied to any time and at any place e.g., conflict between family members, others are specific such as an event that could only take place in a country during a particular time, for example, the London Blitz in the 2^nd World War or an issue such as women’s suffrage. Religious intolerance or another form of intolerance also provide strong themes.

Emotion is a thread which can run through a novel and be employed as a theme that creates conflict, for example, any one of the following, fear, greed, hatred, jealousy, loneliness, love, revenge.

Explicit sex is also a theme but, although my novels are sensual, it is not one of my chosen ones.

www.rosemarymorris.

 

Rosemary Morris published by BooksWeLove

 

http://bookswelove.net/authors/morris-rosemary

 

 

Field of Ghosts by Nancy M Bell

 

To find more of Nancy's work please click on the cover.

After many many years of caring for horses I find that I am in possession of a field of ghosts. Emily aka Pikkasso Premiere crossed the Rainbow Bridge on Tuesday August 9, 2022. She was 22 years old and was born here. Today, in a field that once housed 6 horses and four cows, there is only Shady aka Shades of Ice, a TB mare who came to live her as Emily's companion after Max crossed the Rainbow Bridge. 

    When I look across the empty acres I feel the ghosts of those who lived here and have passed. I see them in the shimmer of heat over the grass, hear their voices in the whisper of the wind, in the laughter of the poplar leaves. Shady is doing well on her own which is a relief. Perhaps, she too, feels their presence and knows she is not alone. 

    Usually when a loved animal passes they are absent for a time before returning, but Emily hasn't left me. I feel her at my side as I'm walking, just as she always did in life. We took her last walk together and as always weak and crappy feeling as she was, she walked at my shoulder and trusted me to the last to do what was best.

    She contacted Potomac Horse Fever and declined very quickly.  Her kidneys failed and while the values did improve overnight while she was on high amount of fluids running IV and with her legs encased in ice boots to hopefully stop the possibility of laminitis (founder), she was in a huge amount of pain. She couldn't have pain meds as they would affect her kidneys which were only marginally beginning to work. Emily was mare who was full of piss and vinegar always, when we first got her to the vet she was literally leaning on me to stay on her feet, swaying and leaning on the wall. She stayed on her feet through sheer will. 

    Tuesday morning she stood with her head down, nose on the ground or leaning on my chest, eyes glazed over. The only times she would stir was when the spasms in her gut spiked. I stayed with her for an hour finalizing a decision I knew I had to make, but needed to be sure. Emily's actions and her body language told me without a doubt that she was ready to let go. Sometimes when you love something or someone so much, you have to make the choice to let them go. 

    We could have continued to treat her, but kidney injury is a long long road to recovery and in most likely hood that would not be anywhere near 100% recovery which could lead to other complications, even in the event she pulled through which was in no way a given.

    How could I ask her to go through that long corridor of pain when I couldn't promise her it would get better. The reality is we could have carried on for another few days, weeks or months and after all that the end result had a high probability of being the same. How could I ask her to endure that when she was telling me in the only ways she could that it was time to let go?

    And so we took our last walk together in this realm and I let her go, staying with her until her spirit left her body. 

    And now I look out over a field of ghosts. Tags (Tag n Passum), Laura (Laura's Miracle), Sue, the cow, Sunny (Pug's Escourt) (the mare) Emily's mom, Phil (Philosopher's Stone) her brother, Flash (MS Flashdance), Sam, Spook, Patches the pony, Sleeping Beauty the pony, Goat-the goat, Big Bird (Condor), Chance, Max, King, and now Emily.  

Until next month, be well, be  happy.

Emily, Phil and Big Bird photo by Michelle Kannenberg